When Harry Was
by RaeC
Summary: [Slash] Harry grows up, one year at a time.
1. When Harry Was One

When Harry Was ...

When Harry Potter was one, he understood what love was. It was warm and soft. When he cried, someone picked him up. When he smiled, they smiled back. When he babbled, they babbled too. He was taken care of, coddled, and adored. He knew that red was his favourite colour, even though he was too young to know it was red. He had the arrogance of all babes in that he felt safe, secure, and knew that whatever he wanted would be provided.

There were softly hummed lullabies as he was rocked to sleep. Warm bottles in the dead of night to ease the pangs of hunger inside. Soothing baths filled with giggles, splashing, and the gurgling indignity as water cascaded over his head. The horrid taste of peas. The sweetness of peaches. Squishy, squirmy feel of his cereal in the morning. The fresh scent of morning flowers as his mother approached and the crisp, sweaty smell of his father after a day spent in the garden. Whatever else he was, Harry was a happy baby.

His days were filled warmth, sunshine, and tickles from laughing faces. Being thrown up in the air and caught by trusted, broad hands perfect for aerobatics. Those same hands as soft as his stuffed toy as they wiped his tears when he fell after taking his first steps. He wasn't really hurt. It was the shock of momentarily losing his breath as he hit the ground. He was scared and this time, there weren't any hands to stop him as he came down.

Harry felt betrayed.

Then he was surrounded by worried, panicked voices. Hands that ran over his tiny limbs looking for wounds that weren't there. He settled, basking in the steady thrumming beneath his ear. He hadn't been betrayed. Warmth surrounded him again. He was loved.

You may not think a baby would know, but it does.

Then they died for him. Pulled away by a brilliant green light with the world crashing around him. Dark, dangerous laughter that filled him with fear. There were no hands to save him now as he fell. He cried. No one came. He fretted and searched for the warmth he was so familiar with and found stillness. Coldness. Silence. Until a roar broke the quiet aftermath, causing him to shake in fear again.

He huddled next to his mother, patting her hair, trying to get her to pay attention to him. She wouldn't answer his whimpers. It hurt. Everything hurt.  
  
Then the familiar smell of leather and oil washed over him and he looked up. He remembered this man. Laughter. Tickling. Teasing. He was whisked up tightly into strong arms. "There, there, Harry my lad. Uncle Sirius will take care of everything." The pulsing under his hand, his ear lulling him into calmness. Someone had come. Someone heard his fear. A moment, a kiss to his forehead, and then darkness took hold as Harry slipped into sleep, secure in the knowledge that he was loved. 


	2. When Harry Was Two

When Harry was two, he lived in the dark. Not the innocence of youth, where knowledge was hidden for the sake of a child, but in the cold, confining space of the cupboard under the stairs. He tried crying, like his cousin, but he was ignored. He tried smiling, which ended with his aunt scowling and telling him to go to his cupboard. "Get out of my sight, Boy."

Once, he patted his uncle, hoping for some small acknowledgement. That ended with a bruised arm and a bump on his head from being thrown into his 'room'.

"Never touch me, Boy." Uncle Vernon snarled in his face. "I won't put up with your constant demands for attention. We give you food, Dudley's extra clothes, and a roof over your head. You should appreciate all that we do for a freak like you instead of asking for more."

Boy; that was his name as far as Harry knew. They never called him anything else.

Harry spent most of his time in his cupboard curled up on his mattress, sucking his thumb, and rocking back and forth wrapped in his blanket. The fresh scent of sunshine was long gone from the battered cloth, but he didn't care. It was better than the creepy, crawly touch of a spider over his arm, the stings on his skin as they bit when he moved. He whimpered as he watched Dudley through the slats of his door being swept into his mother's arms, his face covered with kisses for finally walking across the room.

He was so lonely.

He tried playing with Dudley, but it often ended with a toy being bashed over his head and Dudley screaming. Harry tried just sitting still one day. He waited and waited. Dudley hadn't played with the ball that had sat in front of Harry for what seemed like ages. He picked it up and rolled it back and forth on the floor in front of him.

Then Dudley noticed and began screaming. "Mine! Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!" He stomped his foot as his mother came running.

"You horrid child. Give Dudders his toy back right now!"

Harry cringed and dropped the little ball. His hand burned where his aunt had smacked him. His eyes teared, but by now, he'd learned that it wouldn't matter. His aunt ignored him in favour of Dudley again, shushing him.

"There, there Duddikins. That 'boy' won't touch your things again." His aunt turned her head towards Harry. "Will you? Get into your cupboard. And stay there until Vernon comes home!"

Harry shook his head and toddled off to his cupboard to await his uncle's return. That's the way things always were. Harry did something wrong, most times not understanding what, and then his uncle would yell.

Harry pressed his ear to the door, listening to the latest list of everything he done from breathing to looking at Dudley 'wrong'. Then she told his uncle about the toy.

"I will not have that 'boy' touching Dudders' things. He'll contaminate them!"

"Don't worry, Petunia dear. I'll take care of everything."

That night after a large dinner of ham and fresh greens, of which Harry was given little, Uncle Vernon tossed a bone into Harry's cupboard. "There, Boy. If I catch you playing with Dudley's things again, you be very sorry. Keep your hands to yourself." The latch clicked as his Uncle walked away with a hissed 'You don't exist.'

Harry didn't understand what the words meant, but he understood the emotion behind them. Young Harry wasn't so sure anymore that he was loved. 


	3. When Harry Was Three

When Harry was three, his blanket disappeared. Not in the way most things disappear; because it was left in the back yard, in the car, or at a relatives house while visiting. No, it became something more...as well as less, because it was Harry's and therefore, unimportant. Harry didn't discover this until bedtime however.

He crawled into his cupboard tired from a long day of following his cousin around and picking up his toys. Half broken blocks that he was graciously allowed by his aunt to keep. The sharp edges dug into palms, but they were better than the bone, which had been his only toy for such a long time. Harry chewed on the toy as he absently dug for his blanket with the other.

It wasn't here! He dropped his block in favour of searching for his beloved blanket. He couldn't feel it where it was supposed to be. He whimpered as he felt around in the darkened space. There weren't too many places it could be. Not on the grubby floor or on the shelves that he could reach. He opened his door hoping to find it tucked away on one of the taller shelves.

The light did little to illuminate the cramped place. Shadows continued to hide whatever contents the shelves might contain.

"What are you doing, Boy?"

Harry looked cautiously over his shoulder with fear. He'd been told to go to bed and yet, there he stood with his door open. "Lookin' for my blanket."

"That old thing?" Petunia sneered. "I tore it up for dusting this morning. Back to bed!" With a shove, his aunt pushed him onto his bare mattress and bolted the door shut. Night closed over him with a bang. He could hear his aunt cooing to Dudley as he was fed his nightly 'snack before bed'.

Harry began to cry. Quiet, muffled little hiccups that were heard only by the spiders and the bugs. Dust and grime coated his hands leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as he tried to stifle his noise. If anyone heard him, it would only earn him a smack and then the next day spent in hunger. He fell asleep with his hand tightly hugging the block to his chest. Was nothing ever just his?

The door to his cupboard was open when he woke. As Harry got up off his pallet, he brushed off his clothes, and tucked his block in his pocket. He didn't want it to disappear as he was out of his room for the day.

His aunt was humming in the lounge and Harry followed the sound. He knew she'd have some task for him to do. A flash of blue caught his eye as it moved back and forth across the mantel. His blanket! Harry was reaching for the cloth before he even knew it. It flew into his hand. Harry cradled it close, treasuring it despite the grime on it.

"Get to work, Boy." Harry looked up confused. "Well! You wanted to dust! Dust!"

Aunt Petunia grabbed his hand and pressed it hard onto the side table, working the rag over the surface. "And don't you break anything." With that, she left Harry alone in the lounge with what was left of his blanket, tears streaming down his face. He pulled the cloth close to his face. It smelled yucky. Harry wrinkled his nose. He tried to pull it tight around his neck. It felt 'wrong'. Just like everything else.

"Throw that thing into the bin and get washed up for breakfast." Petunia snapped.

Harry stomped over to the bin under his aunt's watchful eye. He opened the lid and tossed 'that thing' inside.

"Now get upstairs and get washed up. And quit making all that noise!"

"Yes, Aunt 'Tuna."

Harry dragged his feet as he climbed the stairs. Inside the toilet, he pulled his blanket from his pocket and stuck it under the faucet to wash out the bad smells. He scrubbed it for as long he felt he could get away with it and then squeezed it out.

Scowling, he tucked the rag into his pocket. It was 'his'. No one else could have it. 


	4. When Harry Was Four

When Harry was four, he went to Sainesbury's with his aunt for the first time. They were there to replace Dudley's Coco Pops, which he had eaten the day before, yet managed to blame the missing box on Harry. As usual.

To Harry, who didn't remember ever leaving the house before, (at least not on a trip that required him to actually get _ in _ the car) a trip to the grocery was a grand adventure. As they pulled onto the motorway, Harry silently screamed with glee, the wind from the window blowing through his hair. This must be what it felt like to fly. He barely remembered being tossed about, but he did remember that this is how it felt. The dips and the air whirling round and round. He scarcely managed to sit still.

A bit of paper from Dudley's candy wrapper caught an updraft and started whipping about. Harry itched to grab it. He wanted that paper. Dudley obviously didn't want it. He was asleep. Keeping one eye on Aunt Pe'tuna and another on the brightly dancing wrapper, Harry reached out, waiting for the bit to come closer. Yes! His hand tickled where the paper fluttered against his palm. Harry almost laughed, but he stifled it. His eyes sparkled and a silly grin crept across his face. It wouldn't do to let Aunt Pe'tuna know he was enjoying himself. She might make him go home.

As they pulled into the car park, Harry stared in awe at the biggest building he'd ever seen. It was huge...like a castle. With a few added dents, mind you. Every good castle had to have scorch marks and missing stone from a grand war that had ravaged the countryside.

To keep himself entertained while his aunt secured Dudley in a basket, Harry imagined that the battle between good and evil was still being waged. He kept his eyes open for 'the enemy', searching for evildoers while looking both ways as they crossed the busy lot. Like that weird lady who lived down the street that was always talking to her cats. There was one called Nerba who Harry was sure was a spy for That Hateful Man Who Lived in a Castle Far, Far Away. Or at least to the north. In Scotland.

Harry decided he was Dudley's 'squirrel'. It was his job to hold Dudley's lance (his toys) and walk beside his horse (the trolley) in case he was needed. Like to save the damsel in the dress from the T-Rex. In the stories that Harry'd overheard his aunt telling his cousin, he logically understood that the 'Knight' did the saving and not the 'squirrel', but in the illogical workings of a four year old mind, Harry became the rescuer since the Knight was obviously be fussed over by his mother, the wicked witch. And every good knight knows that you don't mess with the witch. She'll turn you into a toad and you'll have to sleep on a pea and wait for someone to kiss you on the nose. And kissing was gross.

Dudley screamed excitedly for the chocolate display as soon as they entered the store. As if he didn't just finish off a chocolate before they came, Harry snorted. Aunt Pe'tuna cooed as Dudley pressed his face against the glass pointing out some of her own favourites. Harry drew closer to the display, hoping he could get one too. Not that he really expected it, but maybe Dudley would drop one if Harry wished really hard.

No one was more surprised than Harry when the lady behind the counter _ did _ drop one. Unfortunately, it was behind the counter and not where he could get to it. Harry sighed and resigned himself to the fact that today was not his lucky day.

"Mummy, I want a candy. Make her give me a candy."

If Harry hadn't been watching the lady so closely, he would have missed her cringe when Dudley started whining. He knew exactly how she felt. The lady pulled out a sample for Dudley to try. A small one.

"No, I want a big one!"

Harry winced. Dudley in full tantrum mode could be very hard on the ears. The lady picked a larger one and handed it to Dudley. She was about to throw out the other when she noticed Harry and while his aunt was tending to Dudley, snuck it to Harry.

Being the 'squirrel' wasn't so bad after all. And he didn't even have to slay the T-Rex to get a prize from the damsel in a dress!

"Come along, Boy." His aunt turned on her heel and walked away.

"Yes, Aunt Pe'tuna."

"Petunia, you horrid boy."

Harry grinned. "Yes, Aunt Petunia." This was turning out to be a really good day after all. 


	5. When Harry Was Five

When Harry was five, he started Primary. The school was filled with noise, lights and kids running everywhere. There was laughter and teasing, jostling as they hurried to their classrooms. Bags spilling their contents as someone was bumped too hard. Muttered apologies that weren't really meant. Harry could tell having said enough of them himself for things he didn't do.

Harry walked behind his aunt and his cousin, watching the excited chaos play out. He was sure there was a method, a meaning to it all. He'd never been around so many kids at once so he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. Occasionally, one of the boys from the neighbourhood would come over and play with Dudley while his aunt gossiped with their mothers. Harry did his best to hide during their visits since they tended to chase after him and hit him once they caught up with him. Harry Hunting, Dudley called it. To Harry, it just hurt.

But now, that was all going to change. He had a chance to make a friend of his own. Just one. That would be nice, one boy who'd see 'Harry'. Play with _ him _, who wouldn't laugh, hit, or scream. Secretly, Harry was pleased to just be out of his house, out of his cupboard, and the rest would be, well chocolate.

Harry was startled out of his thoughts as they reached the classroom and Aunt Petunia garnered the attention of the woman laughing at the antics of one of the students.

"Mrs Murphy? I'm Petunia Dursley and this is my son, Dudley." His aunt proudly introduced his cousin, a hand smoothing his blond hair away from his forehead.

Dudley presented himself, as his mother had taught him. "How do you do?"

"Hello." Mrs Murphy bent down and held out her hand to Harry. Shyly inching forward, Harry shook her hand quickly and retreated to his aunt's side.

"And who is this handsome young man?" Harry liked his teacher already. Not only was she pretty with bright blue eyes and curly brown hair, she noticed Harry. Little Harry Potter who'd made a career out of clinging to the shadows doing his best to blend into the background.

Aunt Petunia didn't take well to Harry being singled out. She squeezed his shoulder as she brought him forward. "My nephew, Harry Potter. I assume the Headmistress told you about the boy?" Aunt Petunia sniffed.

Mrs Murphy stiffened and eyed Harry suspiciously. "You realize if he causes trouble in my classroom, he'll have to go to a State school that specializes in anti-social behaviour?"

Aunt Petunia gave a long-suffering sigh. "We're hoping that exposure to children his own age besides my Dudley and the strict discipline of this classroom, we can break the bad habits instilled by his parents. Lay abouts and drunkards, the both of them."

"It must be such a burden on your family to take the boy in."

"It's fortunate that the boy's parents died before they could do any lasting harm. He requires constant attention."

"Don't worry, Mrs Dursley. He'll not speak out of turn." Her once bright eyes had turned to ice.

Harry slid from his aunt's grasp to huddle behind her dubious protection. "Boy, go take your seat and don't make trouble."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." Harry kept a close eye on the adults as he scurried away. He didn't make trouble and this year he'd prove it. He'd be still, quiet as a church mouse, and then they'd all see. Climbing into a chair at the back of the room, Harry placed his book bag on the floor and folded his hands in his lap. He would be good. It wasn't his fault if trouble found him.

Everything seemed to be going well. He'd made a friend with a boy and his teacher stopped calling on him, which made Harry extremely happy since he couldn't show up Dudley. The last time that happened, he ended up on the roof of his school and Uncle Vernon screamed for hours and hours about his 'freakishness'. He also went to bed without dinner four nights in a row because Dudley still hadn't learned his ABC's and it was somehow Harry's fault. On the fifth day, Dudley finally had them all down.

He also had to share his colours with Dudley, since the boy had broken all of his own, which meant that Harry didn't finish his work and had to complete it at home.

But he thought he did okay, his teacher didn't say anything except to say that work was to be completed in class. Harry tried. Really he did. He snuck paper into his cupboard and practiced his letters over and over again until he could no longer see. He practiced the sounds each made and could read small words by the end of term. He expected to do well. Then he got his first set of marks.

'Poor work habits.'

'Inattention.'

'Failure to participate in class.'

'Inability to play with others.'

'Doesn't apply himself.'

He didn't understand what most of that meant. He'd followed the rules. It was all so confusing. Don't touch. Touch. Play, don't play. Stand still, move around.

Harry sighed as his aunt cooed over his cousin. It was like everything else. Harry would never be good enough. So, he stopped trying. He'd learn for himself and never let anyone else know. 


	6. When Harry Was Six

When Harry was six, his only friend moved away. Michael Proctor knew what it meant to be Harry's friend. He just didn't care. He knew he couldn't talk to Harry during lunch at school or any other time that would draw his cousin's attention. If they were working together in class, it was okay so long as Dudley wasn't looking. Pretend he was working if Dudley decided to see what they were doing. If Dudley came over during playtime, Mike was to run. Don't get in the way if Dudley started Harry hunting. Mainly, stay away from Dudley and his words and fists. Harry could take care of himself. The teacher wouldn't do anything to stop Dudley, Harry would get into trouble, and Mike would get hurt.

Harry and Mike often worked together since they were the slowest learners in the class. Sometimes they would get bored with practicing writing their numbers or letters, colouring in red, blue, or yellow. Tracing shapes. Half the time, they ended up creating imaginary creatures from the 'connect the dots' worksheets. Mike got in big trouble with his parents over that. Harry had to sit on the other side of the room for a whole week since he was obviously 'a bad influence'.

They were just bored. Harry could count perfectly. He'd been able to do it for a long time. Dragons were just more interesting. They were strong, independent, and could breath fire, which was very important if you needed to defend yourself.

Now Harry was alone. Mike and his mother had moved ... after the fire. Dudley took great pleasure in describing in gory detail how Mike's father died. And how, if he'd not been friends with Harry, it never would have happened. Loudly. Especially if Harry was around. And especially if they were at the park with lots of kids around.

Harry didn't need to hear Dudley's version. He already knew. He dreamt about it. On his birthday. There was fire, smoke, and heat. Screams as Mike's mother pounded on the front door trying to get inside. Sirens from the fire brigade wailed accompanied by weird, familiar laughter. Shivers slid up and down Harry's back at the sound, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Harry just knew this was real and woke up in a sweat. He pulled on his oversized trainers, slid out of his cupboard, and ran down the street in a panic. Mike was in trouble. He was locked in the house with no way out.

Magnolia Crescent was bursting with noise and lights by the time Harry got there. Harry tried pushing his way through the crowd, but no one would let him by. The Bobbies had closed off the area in case the other houses caught and weren't letting anyone past. It took half the day to get the fire under control and by that time, Mike and his mother had long disappeared on their way to emergency.

Harry sat on the kerb, the pavement growing hotter as the day grew longer. His tears had long dried leaving tracks in the ash on his face. No one paid attention to him and Harry was just fine with that. Except for the Cat Lady, Mrs Figg, who decided he needed some water. Harry thanked her and drank it quickly, hoping she'd go away soon.

Mrs Figg, however, sat down with Mr Tibbles - her newest spy - and kept Harry company for the rest of the afternoon. Her tartan slippers were covered in dust, her bathrobe loosely tied over her nightclothes, and her grey hair hanging down her back.

Finally, as evening set in, Uncle Vernon pulled up in his car. "Get in."

Harry climbed in the backseat. "You are a danger to good, decent, 'normal' people, Boy, but we can't get rid of you." Nodding to Mrs Figg, Uncle Vernon pulled away. When they got home, Harry was thrown in his cupboard with no dinner and not allowed out until next morning when he discovered the newest addition to his room. A padlock on the door.

"Eat your breakfast and get to work. The garden needs weeding." Aunt Petunia slammed a piece of burnt toast and a glass of water on the table as Harry sat down. He ate quickly hoping to avoid his cousin who'd be coming down any minute and slipped out the back door. Mr Tibbles was lying underneath the tree with one eye on Harry as he knelt down in the dirt. "Damn cat." A meow was his only answer.

An hour later, Dudley waddled into the backyard with his friend Piers Polkiss and towered over Harry.

"What do you want?" Harry yanked yet another shoot from the ground and tossed it in Dudley's general direction.

"You better watch how you talk to me, Freak, or I'll tell mum."

"Go away, Dudley." Harry growled.

Dudley pushed Harry down and started kicking him. "Did you like my present, Freak?" Dudley laughed and kicked Harry harder. "Fairy Harry! Fairy Harry! Lost his little boyfriend!" Harry curled into a ball to try to lesson the damage. At that point, Piers jumped in, not wanting Dudley to have all the fun.

The back door slammed open to a furious Aunt Petunia. "Boy! Stop lying about and get back to work. What did that nasty boy do to you, Duddikins? Show mummy where it hurts."

Harry uncurled onto his hands and knees breathing hard. Dudley smirked over his shoulder and Piers kicked him one more time. In the face. Harry yelped.

"Now, you worthless child. You'll have that finished before lunch or have your uncle to answer to." Aunt Petunia tugged the boys towards the kitchen. "Come along, Piers. You don't want to associate with a delinquent like him. Look what happened to the Proctor boy."

Harry hid behind his hair and got back to work. Mr Tibbles lolled in the freshly overturned dirt. It was going to be a long year. 


	7. When Harry Was Seven

When Harry was seven, he lost his temper. In the most spectacular manner. Dudley, of course, was the cause, dropping food onto the freshly swept floor as he ate a second helping of breakfast.

"Quit it, Dudley," said Harry as he swept the floor again.

"What are _you_ going to do about it?" Dudley spat, his half chewed breakfast spreading across the table.

"Ugh!" Harry jumped back. "Could you be anymore gross?"

Dudley snickered. "You better get to work, _Cousin_, before Mum sees the mess you made."

"Why don't you get off your fat arse and help?"

"Because I don't have to." Dudley knocked his glass over, letting his orange juice spread across the table and delighting in Harry's horrified look. "That's your job."

"Everything is my job." Harry sulked, as he hurried to catch the juice before it landed on the floor as well. The table was sticky and he'd have to scrub it several times before he got it all off.

Dudley, finally finished with his breakfast, poked Harry in the chest and goaded, "You're just jealous cause Mum and Dad love me more." He kicked Harry in the back of his leg as he rounded the table.

Harry hit the table and tumbled to the floor, falling on his wrist. Bugger, that hurt. He probably was jealous, but he'd never admit it. "As if I wanted _them_ in the first place." Why couldn't he have what Dudley had? Why couldn't his aunt and uncle take his side, just once? Was it too much to ask? He stood, clenching his fists at his side.

One time. He did everything he was asked, but it never seemed to matter. His Aunt would find always find one crumb and he'd have do the kitchen all over again. He'd be thrown in his cupboard. No dinner.

"Mum! Dad! He's doing it again!"

Startled, Harry swung around to find Aunt Petunia's dishes hovering in the air. "Oh, no." He dove to catch them before they fell. He only managed to save one. He was toast.

"You're really going to get it now, _Harry_." Dudley was positively giddy. Harry groaned as his Uncle stomped into the kitchen.

"BOY! What did you do?" Uncle Vernon jerked the dish from his hands.

Harry cringed against the counter and tried to make himself as small as possible. "Nothing! They just fell!"

"Things don't just 'fall'. You dropped them."

"I didn't do it. There were just there and..."

"Don't you take that tone of voice with me, you ungrateful brat. You destroyed Petunia's dishes on purpose. I have half a mind to throw you out of the house right now!"

Harry stomped his foot in frustration. "It wasn't my fault!" Tears streaked down his cheeks at the unfairness of it all.

"I suppose they just leapt out all by themselves!"

"Yes!"

"Vernon, what is going on?"

"The boy is throwing a tantrum over cleaning up his mess."

"I won't have this! Vernon, you get a hold of That Man right now. I will not have the boy destroying my home."

Chaos erupted around Harry. The cabinets and drawers shook. Glasses tumbled from the kitchen table onto the floor. He grew more angry and more frustrated and scared. It wasn't him!

And as suddenly as the anger had come, it was gone, leaving a crushing weight behind. It was like trying to breath underwater.

"You will get a hold of yourself." His aunt scowled and smacked him across the cheek. "Clean this up."

Harry shuddered and breathed. There was silence, broken only by sound of an owl landing on the sill with a soft hoot. "Yes, Aunt Petunia," said Harry. "I'm sorry." He didn't know what he was sorry for, nor did he care, but it lessened his aunt's glare. He was always sorry.

It took most of the day to clean up the mess.

"Boy, get up here!" Aunt Petunia called from the stairs. "And bring the dust pan with you! You need to clean up the mess you made in Dudley's room."

He climbed the stairs and stood in the doorway waiting for Aunt Petunia to tell him what to do.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Aunt Petunia demanded and then pointed to the bedside. "Clean that up." Nodding, Harry slid over to the broken lamp and knelt down to pick up the larger shards. He gasped as he sliced his palm open. Wiping his hand on his shirt, he finished sweeping up the smaller pieces before standing.

"Where should I put all this?" Harry asked since his aunt was still fussing over Dudley. The lamp from the guest bedroom was currently casting shadows over Dudley's bedside where he was holding his arm and howling about a cut that was minor at best.

"In the bin, you idiot. Get out of my sight," his aunt snarled. No one followed Harry to the trash to make sure he did as he was told. Harry tipped the bits into the bin and then unscrewed the bulb from the broken lamp. He put it in his pocket before tiptoeing to the sink to rinse out his wound.

"Bed."

"Yes, sir." Uncle Vernon went back into the lounge and his programme leaving Harry to do as he was told. "Good night, Uncle Vernon." A grunt from the lounge was his only answer. Harry closed his cupboard door and with the small glow coming from the slats, he unscrewed the burnt out bulb. He quickly screwed in the other.

Harry put his head out of his cupboard listening for relatives. Aunt Petunia was still upstairs with Dudley and Uncle Vernon was deeply engrossed with yelling at the telly. Harry snuck to the bin and opened the lid. He reached in, placed the burnt out bulb on top of the broken glass hoping that it wouldn't shift and create any noise. Letting out careful breath of relief, he crept back to his cupboard avoiding the squeaky board just before the door. He'd reached his bed just in time as Uncle Vernon shut the telly off.

"No noise from you tonight, Boy."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

The lock snapped shut. The vent cover slammed closed.

Harry counted the steps as his uncle climbed the stairs. He waited until he heard both his aunt and uncle finish in the toilet and head for their room. The house settled around him, quiet as a graveyard.

Harry beamed as he reached up and turned on his light. He'd never had a light in his cupboard before. No one ever questioned where the bulb came from.


	8. When Harry Was Eight

When Harry was eight, he fell ill. A gut wrenching, soul searing sickness that threatened to rip him apart. It hurt, everywhere. He wrapped his arms around his stomach holding tight to keep it from climbing out of his body. His head pounded in time to his heart, each beat a pike pressing deep into his skull. His eyes burned and fire danced across his skin. His bones were like molten stone, hardening and liquefying with every shift and shiver. He couldn't get warm and he couldn't cool off. It left him panting in pain, which of course, only made it worse. Being sick, Harry thought, sucked.

All night long Harry huddled in his cupboard, wishing that someone would come save him…or put him out of misery. His aunt had left him some water, 'to keep you from being a bother during the night', she'd said. _That_ had spilled sometime early in the night as he tried to lift the glass. So, nothing to calm the furnace that used to be his throat.

If he could just open the door and maybe make it to the kitchen? His stomach rolled in protest. Okay, no. Maybe if he just opened the door a little? It was growing unbearably hot in here and it smelled, well, bad. Dirt, and sweat, and tainted.

"What are you doing boy?" Startled, Harry fell back against his pallet, yelping as he jarred his sore body.

"Hot." Harry gasped out to his aunt.

"You're going to infect the rest of the house with your disgusting germs. You'll stay in there and keep the door shut."

"Please. Can't breathe." The door opened wide as his aunt looked into the cupboard. The light hurt his eyes but the fresh air felt wonderful.

"You're too pale. Did you finish the water I gave you?"

Harry tried to get his glass, but fell unconscious in the attempt.

The next thing he knew, he was being moved. The hands pulled him from the dark, crapped space of his cupboard into the light. It hurt his eyes even though they were closed. He was pretty sure he screamed too if the hand over his mouth and the harsh 'be quiet you foolish boy' was any indication. Why couldn't they have left him where he was? He was relatively happy and protected in his room. No one ever came in. He just needed some food and water. He'd be all right.

He sighed in relief at the end of his short trip up the stairs. He was submerged in water that wasn't too hot or too cold. It felt almost oily, but Harry wasn't too sure of anything right now. At least it smelled clean. The hands that scrubbed him were quick, but not hurtful. That was a sure sign that he was dreaming.

"Talk!" Harry wasn't sure he could. The voice was very commanding though.

"…turned his teacher's hair blue…"

"…to be expected…" To be blamed for everything that went wrong in this house? At school? Yup.

"…I won't have it…"

"Drink boy!" Harry swallowed reflexively and nearly gagged. "Swallow." It tasted horrid. Did he have to?

"…what else?"

"…fell down the stairs…" And something that sounded like concern in his aunt's voice. He _was_ delusional.

"…how long…" There was someone in his house. Someone Harry didn't know. That someone was washing him. Harry shivered.

"…he's trembling…"

"…it will only become worse…"

"…what is wrong with the boy?" Harry was starting to feel a bit better. And his delusions were speaking in complete sentences now. He was sure that he was going to wake up soon and in the familiar dark space of his cupboard.

"He's rejecting his magic." It was a very nice dream, but a dream nonetheless.

The sensation of rising and being wrapped in a towel nearly woke him completely, but Harry was reluctant to leave his half space. He'd always felt that it would end up this way. Some stranger would like him more than his own family. He didn't want to give that up. Maybe he'd wake up, this would be real, and he could leave. Go away. Never come back. No Dudley, no Aunt Marge, no chores for days on end.

He was resting on something soft and cool that seemed to take the edge off his skin. His head hurt less. Smelled like spring. Where was he?

"Why didn't you take him to hospital?" A dark voice snarled breaking into Harry's thoughts. He pried open his eyes. So, he'd not completely lost it. The man was real.

"Have you seen his room? I have no way of explaining _that_!"

Oh. Everything in the room was floating. Brilliant. Dudley was going to be cross though. This was his second bedroom.

"Does he own nothing that isn't broken?" Harry snorted softly to himself. He didn't. It was all Dudley's cast-offs and had half a mind to tell the stranger so.

"The brat breaks everything with that…that _abnormality_ of his. Loses his temper and _everything_ explodes!" Harry must have done something wrong again. Was he causing the strangeness? Maybe he better stop.

"What was the boy doing under the stairs?"

"It's his hiding spot. There's nothing there that could harm the child." Aunt Petunia brushed the hair back from his forehead and sat next to him on the bed. "How are you feeling, Harry?" Okay, so the delusions hadn't completely left yet. Couldn't hurt to answer.

"'m fine."

"Well, can you fix him or not?" Uncle Vernon demanded.

"I can make it easier for him to deal with the increase in his powers, but the enchantment will continue to weaken him. He needs to eat more and exercise daily. He's too thin."

"This will pass then?"

"Not until the boy is eleven." The stranger packed up his things. Harry wasn't sure he thought of the man. Must be some specialist. "The boy will continue to suffer from the fits sporadically."

"He'll suffer through it." Uncle Vernon huffed. "The boy doesn't want this freakiness anymore than we do."

A dark shadow blocked the light coming from the window. "Potter, is what he says true?"

"Wha…?" Harry slurred. He tried to pay attention to the fellow, but all he really wanted to do was sleep now.

"Do you truly wish not to do magic?" Harry shuddered. Someone else he made mad at him.

"Can't." Harry whispered. "It's not real."

"The boy is an imbecile. And so are you for allowing this happen." The blinding light came back. Oh god, that hurt. "Stupid. Stubborn. Spoiled Arrogant. Just like his father." This man knew his dad? Harry wanted to question him badly.

"I've done all I can. The rest is up to Potter."

"What about the boy's clumsiness?" That could be fixed? Well, getting away from Dudley would be much easier.

The stranger looked down his nose at Uncle Vernon. "You really are as blind and ignorant as your nephew."

"How dare you!" Uncle Vernon sputtered.

"He needs spectacles." With a black swirl, the stranger left slamming the door behind him.

Had to give the man this much. He knew how to make an exit. Snickering quietly, Harry closed his eyes and fell asleep.


End file.
